


Time

by mrs_squirrel_chester



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Returns, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 15:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7228837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrs_squirrel_chester/pseuds/mrs_squirrel_chester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I found this prompt: For the past twelve years of your life, you haven’t spoken a word, what makes you speak? While the prompt is for twelve years, I decided to go a little longer than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time

Time is a tricky son of a bitch. On one hand, in the blink of an eye, years will pass by as you’re standing off to the side, withdrawing, keeping to yourself like you have become accustomed. On the other hand, you can stare at the wall for what feels like days -months even- but when you look at the clock, only ten minutes have gone by. And that’s what life is, the passing of time. Some moments rush by like the wind and others stick around for a lot longer than you’d like. You can’t manipulate it, you can’t falsify the data, you can’t do anything but sit back and watch.

When Bucky fell off the train, your vision narrowed and time slowed, strobing, pulsing with every panicked beat of your heart. He reached for you, eyes wide and screaming, but you couldn’t reach or hear him. It felt like it took forever for him to disappear into the snowy abyss, but when he did, when that cloud of white swallowed him whole, you wanted to jump. And you would have if Steve hadn’t wrapped his arms around your waist. You remember screaming, begging Steve to let you go, that because of your abilities, you could survive the fall.

“But he can’t, Y/N,” he sounded so defeated in that moment.

Hydra didn’t just take Steve’s best friend or your husband that day, they had stolen everything from you, but most of all, they had stolen your voice. The one way you could communicate with the rest of the world, and it was gone, just like that. You hadn’t sustained any injuries, but from that moment on, your voice was broken, refusing to work Then you lost Steve, your best friend, and it was like time was mocking you, threatening you with spending the rest of your life alone and unloved.

You were a freak, able to move things with your mind, a weapon of mass destruction if the wrong kind of people got their hands on you; people like Hydra. In desperation, you sought out Peggy, who promised you’d be safe with Howard Stark. He had the means to keep you as far off the grid as you wanted, so you disappeared.

70 agonizingly slow years passed before someone dug deep enough to find you; he was one of the last people you expected to see. Steve pulled you off the floor and brushed the dust from your clothes. “Come on,” he pleaded, “I need your help.” And then, in the blink of an eye, you found yourself fighting side by side with Steve.

It felt like he came out of nowhere, dark gear and arm glittering like silver in the sun. He was ruthless, brutal, without conscience; but something familiar about him made your blood run cold. You couldn’t see much of his face, just his brow as the rest was obscured by a black mask. With a mental shake, you dove back into the fight.

After so much time in the dark, you had grown rusty. Your abilities weren’t what they used to be, but in spite of that, you held your own. You held off the soldier in black, saving Steve’s life more times than either of you could count, but it was like he wasn’t human; he just kept coming at that pair of you. It was when you got lucky with a strike and the black mask fell from his face that everything stopped. Along with the slowing of time, your heart stuttered painfully. There was a knot in the center of your chest that grew bigger and tighter, making it damn near impossible to breathe.

The man in front of you was dark and scary; menacing, really. He stared at you with eyes like ice that were surrounded by smudges of black. Long and greasy chestnut hair hung in his face, features contorted by rage. He was ready to strike, body thrumming with anticipation, the coil taut and ready to snap. And yet, he didn’t move.

It had been 70 years since you uttered a single word, but that day, your voice rang crystal clear as his name tumbled from your lips. “Bucky?”

He eyed you, confusion breaking through the anger. “Who the hell is Bucky?”


End file.
